


Dean Does Stanford

by waldorph



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, Gen, Genderfuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-23
Updated: 2008-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-07 03:46:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waldorph/pseuds/waldorph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's a girl (has always been a girl), and she visits Sam while he's at Stanford.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dean Does Stanford

**Author's Note:**

> I blame this _entirely, entirely_ on **medea_aries**. ENTIRELY.

Dean is a blight on his life.

His roommate thinks they're having sex—which, no. Sam can see, ostensibly, abstractly, that Dean is a very attractive girl. But she is his older sister, was like a mom to him, and—no.

She'd sauntered in with a, "Hey, Sammy" in ratty jeans and a shirt with the tails tied under her breasts and she looked like a brunette, shorter Daisy Duke, except in combat boots. Maybe Faith from Buffy—yeah, that was it.

His roommate had gone hard almost instantly, and that was when Sam remembered that Dean was a hazard to his _life_.

Jeremy had fled, and Dean had smirked and flopped on Sam's bed and said, "So. This is college?"

"Dean, what're you doing here?" Sam demands urgently, throwing her one of his many Stanford shirts. "Please put this on. And—Jesus, don't you have pants that don't make you look like a two dollar hoo—hey, Kyle!"

Kyle, Reese, and Geoff all stick their heads in, smiling laciviously at Dean, who shrugs her own shirt off and pulls on Sam's.

Sam's developing an ulcer. And his twitch is back. He's going to kill her, salt and burn her, and then burn out his own eyes.

She's unbuttoning the fly of her jeans when Sam wraps his arms around her (and someday he will stop being so grateful for that growth spurt, but today is not that day), and she looks up.

"Oh, hey guys," she says, noncommittally. Then she gets a good look at Reese, and Sam knows all is lost.

Reese is the kind of guy who is really obnoxiously good looking, blond hair and blue eyes and a straight nose and crooked grin, he's on the swim team and track team and he's a complete womanizer, and his eyes are fastened to Dean's chest.

He is _exactly_ Dean's type. Frat boy, full of himself, and (so Sam's heard) really good in bed.

Actually, if it didn't make Sam want to die, he would sic Dean at him, just to teach him a lesson.

"I'm Reese," Reese drawls.

"Dean," Dean replies, cocking her hips, and Sam throws up his hands and wishes for a beer bong. Or a hell gate. Either one. Really. _He's not picky_.

"Interesting name."

"Dude, lame," Dean scoffs, and saunters over, grabs the front of his polo, and drags him behind her. "Don't wait up, Sammy."

Sam tries to smother himself with his pillow.

*

It spreads like wildfire that there is an incredibly hot chick on campus, who does not actually go to Stanford, who knows a ton about cars, and is given to walking around Sam's residence hall in ass-hugging undies with "eat me" written on them and Sam's Stanford shirt.

Well, no one knows it's Sam's. Except everyone in Sam's hall, who thinks that she comes home every night to Sam who is, depending on who you talk to, fucking her brains out or her manslave.

Nobody seems to believe that she's Sam's sister.

"Dude, she's way too hot," Jeremy dismisses, staring at Dean, who had taken over Sam's bed. Sam glares and twitches the blanket over him.

"Go to class. Go away. Stop _lusting after my sister_," Sam snarls, letting his voice hit that low gravelly register Dad used on Dean's overzealous suitors that sent them scrambling away and Dean snorting before she finished cleaning the gun or making the rocksalt bullets.

Jeremy _runs_.

Sam smirks, locks the door, and goes to class.

*

A week later Dean hasn't explained why she's there, and she hasn't put on clothes, either. She's living off of Ben &amp; Jerry's and diet Coke (okay, so nothing new there), she's moved through the frat houses, and it's determining a whole new social hierarchy. If Dean (Sam cannot _believe_ his sister is going around with one name, like Madonna or Cher or…Shaq…) sleeps with a guy, he is the most sought after boy on campus. She's bypassed seventeen of the hottest guys on campus, and now they're pariahs.

It's high school all over again.

Then Sam goes to see Professor Griline after class and walks in on his _sister_ on his _professor's_ desk, legs wrapped around his waist and—

"DEAN!" Sam barks in agony, banging his nose on the door as he turns to _flee_

Okay. Professor Griline is about 29, very smart, good looking in that geeky English professor kind of way, and passionate about Shakespeare. And apparently _Dean's tonsils_.

Dean sighs, looks at him over her shoulder. "Sammy."

"Oh, sorry, are you—" Griline starts, turning red.

"He's my baby brother. So. About those spells—"

"A job?!" Sam demands. "You're here on a _job_!?"

"Dude," Dean winces, like he's embarrassing her. Like _he's_ embarrassing _her_. She slides off the desk, grabs him by the collar, and hauls him into an empty class room.

"You—" Sam chokes out.

"Dude, do you know what I can do?" Dean demands, folding her arms.

"Dean, _button your shirt_," he growls, staring at the ceiling.

Something explodes. Dean's hands are out, fingers splayed. "Dude," she says, pained. "I'm turning into a WB show."

Sam sinks down into a chair and laughs and laughs and laughs because—

Only Dean would come to Stanford, sleep with half the college, make the other half fall in love with her, consult his professor on a job, and _only when he catches her_ tell him that she's apparently a witch.

"Bitch," she mutters.

"Jerk," he hiccups, still laughing.

Oh, seriously.

This merits at least another week of her visiting.


End file.
